


Fallout (compare to chapter 14 & 15 of full version)

by I_am_lampy



Series: The "It's All Fine" Collected Works Deluxe Edition [15]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence - The Empty Hearse, Canon Divergence - The Reichenbach Fall, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-12-15 10:10:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11803887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_am_lampy/pseuds/I_am_lampy
Summary: John gets off the phone feeling a lot less overwhelmed until, with a pulse of guilt, he realizes that he'll have to call Gerald, explain the cover story to him, and ask him to lie to their friends.(Then he feels an even stronger pulse of guilt when he remembers he still hasn't told Gerald what happened between himself and Sherlock on Thursday night, but that's not a conversation he wants to have over the phone.)





	Fallout (compare to chapter 14 & 15 of full version)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry it's taken me such a long time to post this next part. My health has been poor and the medication turns my brain into cotton balls. School starts August 28th, and I homeschool one of my children so my writing schedule is going to be as slow as it was these past few weeks, but I'm going to try to put in an hour a day writing!
> 
> Take heart, my dearest readers, we're in the home stretch now! A bit of angst ahead then after that, well... actually... more angst. But there will be smut eventually, I swear it!

**Friday, 22 March 2013**

Mycroft makes an appearance at 221B Friday evening to inquire after Sherlock's health and see how he and John are faring, but he's not there just for that. There's the matter of managing Sherlock's return from the dead.

"It should be obvious your return needs to be treated with the utmost secrecy until the Commissioner of New Scotland Yard is willing to issue a public rebuttal of their condemnation of you eighteen months ago. I don't want the press getting wind of your rise from the dead and dragging out the old articles claiming you were a fraud. When you officially return from the dead, I want it to be on the heels of the Met's _mea culpa_ , especially the Chief Superintendent whose nose John kindly broke."

Sherlock and John share a smile, remembering that night, handcuffed together and on the run from the police. When Sherlock had taken John's hand, after John had said _now people will really talk_ , Sherlock had wanted to say _then let's give them something juicy to talk about_ and then press John up against the brick wall at their back and kiss him with every bit of joy from their life together and every bit of anguish from what was to come—Sherlock had known even then that he would have to jump if Moriarty forced his hand, but in that moment, it was the two of them against the world.

It remains a bittersweet memory for Sherlock and John must see the sadness in his eyes even through Sherlock's smile, because he tilts his head, and it's only by the slight furrow between his eyes that John is questioning what he sees. _Are you okay?_ Sherlock nods.

Then Mycroft clears his throat and the two of them turn to face him again. Mycroft opens a leather folder. "I've kept in touch with Gregory Lestrade while you were away. Despite being demoted to Detective Sergeant, he's remarkably loyal to you." Mycroft lifts his eyes and flicks them to John before looking back down at his notes. "He, in turn, has officers loyal to _him_ , one of whom has kept him informed on the progress of the audit, which was completed two months ago. I've been trying to influence the Met, through subtle means, of course, to clear your name publicly, but they're dragging their feet.

"Greg informed me last year that he trained under Deputy Assistant Commissioner Ofelia Robbins twenty years ago, when she was a Chief Inspector and he a lowly Constable. Robbins is well liked and sympathetic to our cause, and with her help, we may be able to convince the majority of the upper echelon of New Scotland Yard that you are not a fraud, since they seem determined to believe it, even though the only mistakes found during the audit of your cases were _theirs_." Mycroft sniffs imperiously before continuing. "It's not enough, however, for them to simply _retract_ their spurious claims. It's imperative that we get an endorsement in _addition_ to their apology, before the world finds out you're alive. As I said, the press will have a field day if they find out you're alive. Not only will they drag out all the old articles damning you as a fraud, but they'll add cowardice to your list of sins, and then it won't matter what New Scotland Yard says or doesn't say—the damage to your reputation will be done. We need to convince them to hold a press conference during which a person of significant authority in the Metropolitan Police explains the parameters of the audit and the fact that you are, as they say, the _real deal_. And then we reveal _you_ , dear brother, alive and vindicated. _That's_ our goal. For now, while Greg and I work on that, I need you two to _stay out of trouble_."

Mycroft favors each of them with a glare in turn, looking like nothing so much as a stern headmaster lecturing his two favorite, but most troublesome, pupils.

"Now, I understand there are people we _must_ tell, but the fewer people who know, the easier this will be and trust me—we are in an uphill battle here. It is _imperative_ that you do not leave the flat, Sherlock."

"What if it catches fire?" Sherlock asks. The subtextual animosity of their relationship before Sherlock went away is gone, but Sherlock is still a little brother and little brothers are hard-wired to annoy older brothers.

Mycroft rolls his eyes. "Only if your life is actually threatened."

"I'll tie him to the bed," John offers with a grin, which disappears when he sees the look in Mycroft's eyes. "Sorry," John mutters.

"Not at all," Sherlock says, coming to his defense. "Mycroft, John has taken perfect care of me. Don't threaten him."

Mycroft looks down at his notes, not deigning to answer. "Mrs. Hudson will need to be told. Have you thought of the best way to tell her that won't involve her shrieking the news to half the neighborhood?"

John jumps to answer before Sherlock can form his reply. "I think we should wait until tomorrow. Let Sherlock get settled in."

"How do you plan to keep her out of the flat?" Sherlock scoffs. "She's baking those scones you love. Can't you smell it?"

"I think we can keep her at bay for at least twenty-four hours, Sherlock," John says with an annoyed air. "I'll answer the door in nothing but my pants and tell her Gerald is waiting for me in bed. She'll shove them in my hand and run for her flat."

This time, it's Sherlock's eyes who show murder.

"Right," John mutters, quickly beginning to feel like he's hindering the proceedings more than helping.

"If you're confident you can put her off until tomorrow, John, then I'll leave it to you to give her the good news."

Mycroft looks down at his notes and turns one of the pages over, but Sherlock is surprised to see it's a stalling tactic. Mycroft needs to say something he thinks will distress one of them.

"Just spit it out, Mycroft," Sherlock says impatiently.

Mycroft looks up and fixes his gaze on John, "I would prefer that your friend remain in the dark about Sherlock."

"My _friend?_ " John asks, more defensive than what is warranted. "You know very well Gerald isn't some casual acquaintance, Mycroft. You've known that for almost a year."

"You told him," Mycroft says flatly.

"Yeah, I have. We spend almost all our time together! How else was I supposed to explain why I'm stuck at home for the next week or so?"

Sherlock's temper flares at John's words. " _Stuck at home?_ ” Sherlock repeats coolly. “If being my doctor is so disagreeable to you, then perhaps you should find somewhere else to live for the foreseeable future. I'm sure your _boyfriend_ will be pleased to have you stay with him."

"Oh, c'mon, Sherlock, you know I didn't mean it li—"

"I wasn't aware that the phrase _stuck at home_ actually had a positive connotation," Sherlock snarls. He glowers at John, but John crosses his arms and refuses to acknowledge him.

"Gentlemen, please," Mycroft says. "The important thing is that you impart to Gerald that the knowledge of Sherlock's return needs to be handled with absolute secrecy."

John gets up from his chair at the sitting room desk. "You know, Mycroft, I wouldn't be quite so insulted if you spoke English rather than Posh Public School Arsehole," John growls. " _Hey, John, tell Gerald not to tell anyone else_. I forget that the two of you think I'm a sodding idiot, ta so much."

With that, John stalks to his bedroom and slams the door.

Mycroft opens his mouth to speak.

"Don't even start," Sherlock mutters.

Mycroft's eyes drop to his lap, and he takes a moment to brush imaginary lint off his trousers. When he finally speaks, his voice is too low for John to hear. "What happened last night?"

"That's none of your business," Sherlock snaps, before turning his head to face the mantle, his heart battering against the cage of his ribs. There's something heavy and painful settling in his throat and stomach.

"Sherlock," Mycroft says gently. "If you put him in the position of being unfaithful to his boyfriend, he'll resent you for it."

"He's perfectly capable of saying no, Mycroft," Sherlock mumbles without his usual vitriol.

"I'm not sure he _is_ where you're concerned," Mycroft says.

Sherlock keeps his face turned away. "I've confessed my love and it doesn't seem to have changed anything. What else can I do?"

"You _wait_. Yesterday afternoon, he thought you were dead. It's only been twenty-four hours since you returned from the dead. Give him a chance to adjust." Mycroft sits back in his chair before speaking again. "What did he say when you—as you so quaintly put it—confessed your love?"

"He said lots of things, none of which were _I'm in love with you, too_ ," Sherlock says, his voice tremulous.

"I know it's hard to wait when you've already spent so long waiting, Sherlock, but you both need time. You need time to heal and he needs time to adjust."

"How long am I supposed to wait? A week, a month? How do I protect myself in the meantime? What if he doesn't feel—"

Sherlock stops speaking, playing the conversation from this morning over in his head.

_Well, you know, you're very attractive and before you left I'd had feelings about you, I thought I did, at any rate, but then you died and—_

Sherlock's emotions have been changeable and frustratingly overwhelming since his rescue, part of the fallout of his ordeal in Serbia. This morning, he felt full of confidence; now, not as much. Is it possible he misinterpreted John's feelings? But then why would John have asked for time? _I can't make a decision that will affect three people so much when you've only been home for twenty-four hours_.

"—lock!" Mycroft hisses.

"Sorry, I—" It's several more seconds before Sherlock speaks again. "I'm tired, Mycroft. I need to lie down."

"Of course," Mycroft says, standing. "I'll just get John."

In a panic, Sherlock pushes himself to his feet and lunges for Mycroft's sleeve. "No! Leave him be. I'm perfectly capable of taking my medication and putting myself to bed."

"Very well," Mycroft says, looking dubious. "Then I'll see you tomorrow evening."

"Yes, fine," Sherlock says, and walks into the kitchen, leaving Mycroft to see himself out.

~*~

Sherlock takes his antibiotic, four ibuprofen, and the melatonin John prescribed, and is about to make his way upstairs to John's old room (and what is now Sherlock's new one) when John comes out of his bedroom, looking rumpled and exhausted.

"John, I'm—" Sherlock starts, but John just shakes his head.

"It's fine, Sherlock," John says, his voice low and quiet. "Let me get your medicine."

"I already took it," Sherlock says.

John raises his head, looking surprised. "Oh, okay. Well, um. If you're ready for bed, I can—" John stops, gesturing over his shoulder at his bedroom door.

"I'll sleep upstairs," Sherlock says. "You need your rest as well."

"I'd rather you slept down here."

"I realize that, but I need to get less dependent on you as I heal, not more."

"Look, if this is about what I said—"

"Oh, for _Christ's_ sake, John, it's not all about you!" Sherlock snaps and immediately regrets his outburst.

John opens his mouth to say something rude, but then his eyes flick down Sherlock's body, and Sherlock sees the moment he remembers what's happened and decides to bite back his retort. Sherlock goes from contrite to furious in the quarter of a second it takes him to read the pity in John's eyes.

"In fact, I'd prefer it if you would stick to being my doctor and not my nursemaid," Sherlock says, looking down his nose at John.

John's nostrils flare. "Yeah, all right. Sheets and pillows are in the linen closet there. Good night."

~*~

**Saturday, 23 March 2013**

The next day, John goes over Sherlock's injuries with clinical professionalism. John is still angry and Sherlock, though regretful, reverts to his usual way of handling negative emotions—pretending he doesn't care and acting like a Posh Public School Arsehole, as John called it (rather cleverly, in Sherlock's opinion).

Afterwards, he descends to the ground floor to break the news of Sherlock's resurrection to Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock can hear her wail of joy all the way upstairs and then the _clack clack_ of her kitten heels on the stairs. She bursts into the room, her makeup streaked with tears while her eyes continue to flood with more. She covers her mouth with both hands and Sherlock stands up gingerly. She starts to rush to Sherlock, and John shouts out _mind his injuries and be gentle_ , but she only cups Sherlock's face between her hands and stares, a joyous smile on her lips and eyes that continually well up and over, then down her cheek.

"Oh, my darling boy," Mrs. Hudson says softly. "Oh, my darling, sweet boy. This is the single most joyful day of my life."

Sherlock allows her to cup the nape of his neck and press his head down on her shoulder. (She almost has to reach up on tippy toes to do it, but the heels on her shoes give her the extra height she needs.) Much to his dismay, Sherlock finds his own eyes watering.

When she lets go, she turns into a different Mrs. Hudson—the one who can give Sherlock Holmes a tongue lashing that sees his head bowing in contrition like a naughty child. (The only person who can do that in addition to his mother.).

"Sherlock Holmes! How dare you leave us behind to think you were dead!" She jerks her thumb in John's direction. "And _this_ one! He grieved day after day, trying so hard to keep going with you gone. I don't mind telling you there were a few times I worried for him. He was absolutely inconsolable for _weeks_ ! And the _nightmares_! Every—"

"Okay, Mrs. Hudson, I think he gets it," John interjects before she can reveal any other embarrassing secrets from those terrible first months of grief.

" _You_ and your _brother_ ," Mrs. Hudson, barely stifled, continues. "So secretive and always plotting. Shame on you for leaving us behind to think you were dead! I intend to have a word with your mother—please tell me you've told _her_ you're still alive! I can't _imagine_ —poor Violet! Grieving the loss of her baby boy for eighteen months! And you her favorite! It's not right, Sherlock. I don't care what reason you have—"

"It was to keep you safe—"

"Oh, you can just take your excuses and, and—I mean, _really_ , Sherlock! You can't tell me that there wasn't one person in the entirety of the British Secret Service who couldn't have taken on the tasks of finding these people who were threatening our lives?"

"Of course, but I had to stay out of sight until every single one of Moriarty's operatives was sussed out and detained. My options were either hiding out in the countryside slowly going insane or going along on the missions. I made my decision in part because I didn't trust myself to, well—to stay away."

At this Sherlock looks up at John, who's looking back at him with hooded eyes and an unreadable expression.

"Well, that's what you get for messing around with psychopathic criminal overlords, now isn't it? I hope you've learned your lesson!"

Sherlock chuckles and then holds a big grin on his face. He bends his head and kisses Mrs. Hudson's cheek. "You are wonderful, Mrs. Hudson, and I'm so glad you and John had each other while I was away."

Mrs. Hudson pats his cheek, mollified. "I suppose I can forgive you, you _infuriating_ boy. John, put the kettle on and then come downstairs with me. Last night I made some of those currant scones you like so much and you can bring them up here and have them with a cuppa."

John glances at Sherlock and smiles and Sherlock feels a relief so powerful, it staggers him. Mrs. Hudson leaves after one last kiss to Sherlock's cheek. John obediently goes into the kitchen and puts the kettle on.

"I'll be back," John says.

"It's so tedious when you state the obvious," Sherlock huffs, then berates himself for being rude so soon after being forgiven by John.

" _You infuriating boy_!" John says in mimicry of Mrs. Hudson. He purses his lips like she does, and manages to puff himself up to look highly indignant. He walks out of the flat with a hand pressed to his breast in almost perfect imitation of a disapproving Mrs. Hudson but not before tossing a grin over his shoulder that Sherlock finds devastatingly sexy.

"Oh, John," Sherlock groans, and drops his head into his hands.

~*~

**Sunday, 24 March 2013**

The next morning, John gets two texts from Rebecca and Bernie, which he answers as tersely as he can. Apparently, they're not reassured, because he gets two _more_ texts from Rebecca. He says the same thing, but a little more firmly and turns his phone to vibrate. It sits in his pocket, buzzing angrily until, miserable with frustration, John stuffs it down between the seat cushion and arm of his chair.

He checks it before bed to find he has five missed calls. He listens to his voicemail, tempted to leave it, but knowing if Rebecca and Bernie aren't given some incentive to leave off, they'll show up at the flat.

_You have two new messages. First message._

_...[beep]_

_John! It's Rebecca. What's going on with you and Gerald? Bernie told me that Gerald cancelled the drinks date the two of you had at theirs Friday night, and then on Saturday, Gerald still didn't know anything! When Bernie asked if you were okay, Gerald said yes, but Bernie says he looked sad. So, what's going on? Don't hold out on me, all right? You know I love you, right?_

_[beep]..._

_To delete this message, press nine. Next new message._

_...[beep]_

_Me again. C'mon John, I'm worried about you. Please call me._

John sighs and hangs up the phone. He reads the text messages from Rebecca a second time, trying to find a way to respond that doesn't invite more questions. He remembers, now, why having Sherlock in his life makes it so hard to have any other meaningful relationships. Even if Sherlock's return wasn't a secret, John is familiar with the slippery slope he's already started down and at the end of it will be bruised feelings, resentment, and shattered friendships.

Sherlock is almost worth all of it. At least, he was _before_ —back when John didn't have anyone else. Now, John has _people_ —people who need his time, need his focus, people with whom he has rapport and kinship. He can't just throw them all in the skip because Sherlock bloody Holmes is back.

(He _might_ , God help him, if he had to choose.)

 **John** : Hey, sorry I've been out of touch. Just getting some things sorted. Don't worry, I'm fine. I promise I'll call you later this week and give you the whole story before anyone else.

 **Rebecca** : Will you be at work tomorrow?

 **John** : Yes.

 **Rebecca** : You'd better be! :)

~*~

Sherlock has a nightmare that night, and John wakes to Sherlock screaming his name. John hears a clatter and a thump, followed by stomping that sounds like Sherlock running for the stairs. John beats him there, clonazepam in hand. When John asks what happened, Sherlock shakes his head, but he looks haunted, and keeps a painful grip on John's arms. After the barbiturate does its job, John moves to go back downstairs. Sherlock’s eyes widen in fear, and John stays. He falls asleep with Sherlock's hand gripping his bicep and a foot hooked over his legs.

When John wakes on Monday morning, he calls into work and tells them he won't be in that night after all.

~*~

**Monday, 25 March 2013**

"John," Mycroft says that evening, surprising John, who's not used to being addressed directly by Mycroft when Sherlock is in the room. (Unless Sherlock refuses to do what Mycroft wants, in which case Mycroft fobs it off onto John.)

"I'm sorry, what?" John asks, sitting up straighter.

"If you haven't already called your supervisor at the hospital to request more time off, might I suggest a cover story?"

John rolls his eyes. "Like you need my permission to _suggest_ something."

Mycroft dips his head in acknowledgement. "Well, then, I _suggest_ telling them you're attempting to get your sister into rehab and need a week to get her admitted and settled."

"That's—actually, that’ll work. I'll go call now," John says, before heading into his bedroom and shutting the door behind him for privacy. (Or as much privacy as one can have around Sherlock and Mycroft, which is to say none. Still—it at least gives him the _illusion_ of privacy.)

It's heartless, but John's almost grateful to have a believable story to tell both his supervisor _and_ his friends. John doesn't like lying, but he does exactly as Mycroft says if only because he wants to protect Sherlock from the press, after how Sherlock was treated before he faked his death. John still remembers those hateful months after, mourning his best friend and holding onto his belief in the face of such ugly and biased publicity. It's not that John doesn't trust Rebecca or his supervisor, but the more people who know, the more likely the secret will get out.

When he calls the hospital, his supervisor is irritated at first _(I thought you were coming back tomorrow night)_ then, when John explains himself, she's reluctantly sympathetic. John doesn't take offense, knowing she has an A &E to run and one doctor out for a week means extra work for her, especially on short notice.

"When _can_ you be back?" she asks, distracted, and John knows she's probably pulled up the schedule on her computer and is trying to shuffle people around to cover for him.

John usually does the night shift Sunday through Wednesday, but that was before Sherlock came back. (This is the third time Sherlock has divided his life into _before_ and _after_ . _Before_ and _after_ he met Sherlock; _before_ and _after_ Sherlock died; _before_ and _after_ he came back from the dead.)

Before Sherlock came back from the dead, John wanted to keep his weekends free so that his schedule coincided with Gerald's.

John thinks of Sherlock now, of him trying to sleep while alone in this flat, of Sherlock caught in the strong (and cold) steel grip of a nightmare, of him waking to silence and solitude.

"Actually, it looks like I'll need day shift for a while," John asks, wincing in anticipation of his supervisor's censure.

"It'll have to be the weekend, then," she says with a long-suffering sigh, meaning Thursday through Sunday.

"Yeah, that's good. That's great, actually."

John gets off the phone feeling a lot less overwhelmed until, with a pulse of guilt, he realizes that he'll have to call Gerald, explain the cover story to him, and ask him to lie to their friends.

(Then he feels an even _stronger_ pulse of guilt when he remembers he still hasn't told Gerald what happened between himself and Sherlock on Thursday night, but that's not a conversation he wants to have over the phone.)

John texts Rebecca and gives her the same cover story that he gave Janie, his supervisor. Then he calls Gerald to tell _him_ as well, so everyone is given the same story. When Gerald answers, John takes a second to soak up the soothing sound of his voice.

"I was worried I'd never hear from you again," Gerald teases when he answers the phone.

"Yeah, it's just—it's been a huge adjustment. It'll be weeks before I get used to seeing him around the flat. I can't talk long, but I wanted to let you know that I told Janie at work that I was trying to get Harry into rehab and needed a week off. I texted Rebecca the same thing 'cause she was worried about me."

"Oh, thank god you told her something because she keeps asking and I was beginning to worry I'd break under the pressure."

John chuckles quietly. "Well, if anyone else asks, just tell them the same thing."

"You need to give me more than that, John. You _know_ they'll want details."

John takes a deep breath and sighs. "Yeah. Um, I guess we should keep the details as close to what actually happened with Sherlock as possible. So, uh, if they ask—but don't offer details unless they ask."

He and Gerald work out enough details that Gerald feels confident he won't let anything slip, and they both feel confident they can keep well-meaning, but nosy friends away from the flat and held at bay for now.

"Now we've got that sorted—how are you holding up, darling?"

John lets out a deep sigh. "It's been a bit, you know, difficult. Sherlock can't go out until his name is cleared. Mycroft is working on it, but, it takes—it takes time, you know? Sherlock's getting better quickly, though, and it won't be long before he's bored and then it'll be a close race to see if Mycroft gets things worked out before Sherlock reaches his breaking point. He's good at disguises, but if even one person finds out he's alive, it gets—it'll be even harder for him to come back without having himself ripped to shreds in the papers."

John swallows and Gerald makes a sympathetic noise. John gives him his new work schedule and tells Gerald he'll stop by Thursday on his way home from work.

~*~

**Thursday, 28 March 2013**

On Thursday, John starts his new day shift schedule. All day, in between patients, he's distracted and on edge, trying to think of what he'll say to Gerald once he gets there. Everything he comes up with sounds too blunt, like he doesn't care, or full of platitudes, which is just insulting. No matter what he says, they all mean the same thing.

_I love you, but I love Sherlock more._

On top of that, Sherlock texts John several times an hour. None of what he has to say is interesting or important—he texts what he had for lunch or that Mrs. Hudson came by or that he was a _good boy_ and took all his medicine. (John frowns at Sherlock's word choice. Lately, it seems like everything Sherlock says is cloaked in sexual innuendo.)

Now that Sherlock has regular meals, and with the addition of two or three smoothies a day for the last week, his healing has clipped along nicely. His bruising is beginning to abate. The fungal infection and anal abscess are completely healed. (When Sherlock informed him of the latter, he'd given John a decidedly sexy smile. John, flustered, had nodded and then retreated to his bedroom where he tried to calm his thundering heart.)

After work, John sends Sherlock a text, letting him know that he has a few things he has to do (actually, just the one thing), but reassuring Sherlock that he'll be home by eight. Then he puts the phone on silent, goes to his locker and pulls out the box with the Magic Bullet in it. The night before, he'd washed it very carefully and packed it up to give back to Gerald.

Gerald looks so happy to see him when he answers the door, that John's heart stutters and he feels his composure crumbling. Gerald's hair is up in the charmingly haphazard topknot he usually wears at home, or when he's working.

"You look miserable, darling, what happened? Come in and sit down," Gerald says when he opens the door.

Gerald steps back so John can come in, but when Gerald leans in to kiss him, John thrusts the box towards him. Gerald freezes, then reaches out slowly to take it. He turns around and walks stiffly towards the kitchen to leave it on the worktop. John follows, but stands next to the dining room table, leaving several feet of space between him and Gerald.

John speaks, his voice coming out unsteady. "We need to talk."

Gerald flinches at the words and he closes his eyes for a few seconds. When he opens them, his eyes glitter with tears, but his body language has subtly shifted, and he looks ready—eager even—to fight.

"You're here to tell me it's over," Gerald says, low and deep. John shivers, a Pavlovian response to the timbre of Gerald's voice—it's his Dom voice.

Gerald walks towards John, and then begins to make a circuit around him, Gerald's eyes moving up and down, occasionally pausing to look closer. He uncannily mirrors Sherlock in this moment, and it occurs to John that this ability to read a person with just a glance is part of what attracted him to Gerald in the first place—it just wasn't as obvious to John then.

"You had sex with him," Gerald says, facing John at last.

John nods.

"When?" Gerald snaps, his voice cold and steady.

"Thursday night," John says, his eyes flicking up to Gerald's, then skittering away again at what he finds there.

Gerald takes the single step necessary to put them toe to toe and then uses the two inches of height he has on John to his advantage, by looming close, forcing John to take a step back. He's trembling and John, misinterpreting the cause of his trembling, reaches out to touch him, to reassure him, but Gerald slaps his hand away.

"Don't you dare touch me," Gerald hisses.

Gerald is vibrating with barely suppressed fury, but John doesn't lower his gaze, knowing every minute of Gerald's anger he endures is only what he deserves.

"Did he fuck you?" Gerald asks, his voice venomous.

John has never met _this_ Gerald, has never experienced a Gerald full of rage, would have said Gerald was too kind for this kind of reactive anger.

"No," John says, shaking his head. He tries to swallow, but his throat is too dry.

"What _did_ happen?" Gerald asks. He moves back to lean against the wall between the dining room and kitchen, and crosses his arms, like he's settling in for a lengthy conversation. His face is twisted in anger and disgust, belying the casual slant of his body, though tears glimmer on the edge of falling.

"He, uh, he had a nightmare and I was helping him change his clothes. He kissed me and I didn't want to push him away, in case I hurt him—physically I mean, although—although emotionally, too, I guess. But it got—he got his hand into my pajama bottoms, and I, I—I got hard, I couldn't help it, and he got me off with his hand."

"Oh, is that all?" Gerald asks conversationally.

"You'd rather it was something more?" John asks, his own anger starting to build.

"I'd rather it was _not at all_ !" Gerald roars. "Is his hold over you really that strong? How _does_ he do it, I wonder. And here I was, meek and faithful, doing my best to support you, berating myself for being jealous. Tell me—is there a reason why you're only telling me this _now_?"

"I didn't want to do it over the phone," John says, gathering his integrity around him like a shield. "I'm not a coward and I wanted to face you like a man."

"Really," Gerald says conversationally, the sarcasm underlying it thick as blood. "Tell me then—did this reunion hand job happen _before_ or _after_ I picked up the prescriptions you needed me to fill?"

John closes his eyes as sour shame wends its way from his gut to grip his lungs and heart, seizing them both so that it feels, just for a second, as though his heart has stopped and his lungs collapsed. It would be _so easy_ to lie, to grant Gerald this one small mercy (although John's not entirely sure Gerald needs it), but he can't add an insult to Gerald's intelligence on top of the pain he's inflicted by confessing his infidelity. His heart restarts and he takes a deep breath, inflating his lungs although he doesn't need that much air to say the word.

"Before."

Something sparks in Gerald's eyes and his face turns thunderous. "You want me to feel grateful that you came to tell me _in person_ , like a _brave_ man," he sneers. "Well, tell me John—tell me how you can _possibly_ expect me to think you're not a coward when you had the chance to tell me, but _instead_ of telling me, you sent me off to run your errand for you and your little resurrected boyfriend! Were you hedging your bets? Keeping the old boyfriend on the line in case the new one didn't work out?"

John's nostrils are flaring. His jaw is clenched so tightly that it's making his head hurt, but he forces his voice to sound calm. "I'd not even wrapped my own head around what happened yet, much less know how to tell you."

"Really? Because it seems simple to me. How about _I cheated on you_. Did you—did this happen in your bed or upstairs?"

"What difference does it make?" John asks, fatigue stealing over him. Sherlock doesn't sleep well, which means John doesn't either, and he's just come off a ten-hour shift in the A&E.

"Just tell me!" The first cracks in Gerald's facade are making an appearance. There's an unspoken _please_ on the end of his order.

"In my bed," John says.

Suddenly, Gerald lets out a terrible, choked off wail and his face seems to fold in on itself before he covers it with his hands. John stays frozen in place. Gerald's hands drop to his sides, tears spilling over his cheeks. John notices what he hadn't when he walked in—the smudged bruises under Gerald's eyes, the unusually pale quality of his skin. He's been _worried,_ about John most likely, and this is how John rewards him—a confession of infidelity and the end of their relationship.

" _Why_ , John? What does he have that I don't, that he can walk in the door after everything he did to you—he left you _alone_ , let you think he was dead! I was _there_ ! I _watched_ you grieve! He made you watch while he faked his suicide, and you bought a new bed because you didn't want to sully his memory, but in our—in the bed where _we_ —where you let me inside your body—it meant everything to me! That bed felt like _ours_ . For god's sake, you fucked me in that bed the _same day_ and you let him—did any of that cross your mind? Did you even _think_ of me? Do I matter so little compared to him?"

The last sentence is said so quietly, it might as well be a whisper.

"I made a huge mistake," John says tremulously, wiping away his own tears. "I can't change what happened. I want you in my life, but I—I never stopped being in love with him," John says quietly. "It didn't matter then—he was dead, so it didn't matter. I love you, Gerald, no matter how much I've hurt you."

"Do you remember the cemetery, John?" Gerald asks, as though they're old friends reminiscing.

"The, the cemetery?" John asks, confused.

"When you tried to burn the notebook, and I hit my knee and we joked about him being jealous even in death."

"Um, yeah," John says carefully. "I remember."

"It's one of my favorite memories. I never told you, but—well, I didn't think I would run out of time to tell you, did I? So, I'm telling you now.

"I loved that day because you—you let me be a part of what you were trying to do—to honor him, and your feelings for him, and you weren't at all self-conscious. You were so—I don't know how to say it without sounding pathetically in love, but you shone so brightly that day. You were so happy, and I'd helped you with that. I felt like I was basking in the sun, but you were the sun. I never felt jealous of him, never. Not once did you ever make me feel like you were measuring me against him.

"That's how I know your happiness was genuine. I really _did_ give you that."

"You've given me so much more than that." John drags the sleeve of his jacket over his eyes to clear the tears away, throat spasming around the mass of grief that's settled there.

"Have I?" Gerald asks in a wavering voice.

His chin dimples, like a child's, as a precursor to tears, and he looks so innocent in that moment, with his silly topknot, that John has to swallow a sob in order to speak.

"Yes, you—of course you have, Gerald. Of course, you have."

"None of it matters, though, does it?" Gerald's breath hitches and it takes him a few deep breaths before he can speak without crying. "What we had was over the minute you saw he was alive."

Gerald brushes past him and moves to open the front door. John stops him with a hand on his forearm.

"Is this—I don't want us to never speak to each other again, unless—or is that what you want? To never speak to me again?" The thought fills John with panic as he begins to grasp the depth of his _own_ loss.

Gerald doesn't answer. He just opens the door and waits, head lowered, the topknot John has found so charming falling forward.

"Gerald, please," John says, unable to hide the sorrowful hitch in his voice.

"Just—just go home, John," Gerald says, his voice congested with tears, and strangely flat.

"I'm sorry," John says again, but Gerald never looks up, never even acknowledges John spoke. He finds himself out on the pavement, watching Gerald's front door close quietly in his face.

John walks two blocks before he realizes he's going the opposite way from the tube station. His body feels too heavy, his limbs leaden. He wants to sit down on the sidewalk and cry the way children do—heaving and sobbing, dripping mucus and tears—because it's the kind of crying that wipes a person clean, and John feels _fouled_ . He can't face Sherlock like this, knowing Sherlock will _see_ the desolation in John's heart, will deduce it from the snot on John's sleeve and the red rimming his eyes.

He has to go home, though. It's already dark out, plus he feels grotty and in need of a shower, and hasn't eaten all day except a banana in the doctor's lounge someone else had left behind with a cheeky little note that said _eat me_. Funny that—he feels safer eating a banana that a stranger left in a public place, than he would if he'd found it on his kitchen table, knowing how little regard Sherlock has for disclosing the parameters of an experiment to John before using him in one.

With that, the fury John has been harboring toward Sherlock for a week explodes inside him, polluting his already ravaged psyche. He knows when he walks in the door, when Sherlock _sees_ what's happened, he won't think about comforting John—he'll only say something like _well, then why did you tell him if it hurts so much to break up with him?_

Riding the tube home, John reminds himself that Sherlock isn't the comforting type, and not to be hurt when Sherlock dismisses John's feelings. He just needs to give Sherlock a quick exam to make sure he's still healing well, and then he can take a shower and go to bed. _Don't let him get to you,_ he tells himself.

The advice is three years too late.

~*~

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, as always, to my wonderful beta readers, Jenn and Katie, who took me to task over this breakup, sending me back again and again until I gave the characters their voice. (Seriously, like ten times. It's their fault it took me over two weeks to post the next episode.) (No, not really, don't believe anything I say.) I wouldn't be able to do this without them--they encourage me to write better, and praise me when I do. (Little hearts are floating over my head.)


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